


drifting, falling

by myeyesarenotblue



Category: The Umbrella Academy (Comics), The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Mild Gore, Post-Season 2, References to Non-Consensual Possession, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting, Season 2 spoilers, Telekinetic Klaus Hargreeves, mild body horror, the sparrow academy - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:15:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26136343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myeyesarenotblue/pseuds/myeyesarenotblue
Summary: Ben is standing right in front of him, staring.Not Ben.Or-Maybe, yes, Ben. But a different version of him.A Ben that grew up with the same father but an entirely different set of siblings. A Ben that’s alive and breathing. A Ben that thinks emo bangs are somehow acceptable.
Relationships: Ben Hargreeves & Klaus Hargreeves
Comments: 21
Kudos: 157





	drifting, falling

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm done processing season 2 and I decided I don't actually hate Klaus and Ben's storyline, I just feel like it was _incomplete._ Like, why go through the trouble of showing us their decaying relationship if it was not gonna mount up to anything??? There was ZERO closure??? Plus the whole possession thing????
> 
> Anyway, this is me, giving the ghoul boys closure (but with even more angst first ❤️)
> 
> Also, I was one of those people who read every single spoiler available and that ew article really had me fooled into thinking Klaus was gonna get his comic powers so I'm making him sexy and powerful. The Sparrows are based off the comic.

“Dad, who the hell are these assholes?” 

And- 

Oh. 

_ Oh.  _

Klaus can’t really help it- 

He barks out something that’s mostly laughter but could also be an interesting mix between a sob and an animalistic howl. “Five!” he shrieks,  _ laughing, laughing, laughing _ , “Five-! Five, you broke the timeline!” 

No one else is laughing. 

Five glares at him, murderous. “I wouldn’t place all the blame on me,” he hisses, low and angry, through gritted teeth. “I’m not the one who started a goddamned  _ cult  _ after all.” 

“Oh,” Klaus breathes, and his laughter dies out. “Oh, my cult.” 

Ben kept telling him not to disappear on them. 

But Ben’s gone now, so who’s got the last laugh? 

A step, two, three, “No, Dad, seriously, who-” a disgruntled scoff, “Who even are these people? Should we be doing something about them?” 

And it’s- 

It’s Ben! 

It’s Ben but he’s flesh and blood, and he’s got a scar that rivals Diego’s, and his hair looks even more stupid than it usually does, and he’s an  _ asshole! _

Not that Ben isn’t usually an asshole, but- 

Klaus breathes out, goes to step away from his siblings and into the bar but Diego’s hand latches out and holds his arm in a tight grip before he can’t get very far. 

Dear ‘ol Dad finally moves, walks deliberately, side eyeing them with open disdain in his face, walks until he’s standing right next to bizzarro Ben. “They’re guests,” he announces, “They will be staying with us for the time being.” 

Diego huffs out, annoyed. “Yeah, like hell we’re staying here.” 

“It wasn’t a question, boy,” Dad says, and- and Klaus fucking hates himself for it but that tone, that voice, that implicit threat, that  _ obey or else _ , still manages to make his skin crawl. “I haven’t forgotten 1963, you know? I believe I’m owed some explanations.” 

Then Five’s smiling something bitter. “What could we possibly know that you don’t?” 

“I don’t know yet,” Dad says, challenging. “But I’m eager to find out.” 

Klaus laughs again, an ugly snort, short. 

Dad  _ glares _ at him, and then fucking emo Ben has the  _ audacity _ to  _ glare _ at him, too, and Klaus- 

Klaus shakes Diego’s hand off him, scurries away before he can think to grab him again. Then he’s walking in a straight line towards the bar, ignoring his siblings’ annoyed gasps  _ (“Klaus-” “Jesus, Klaus, can’t you-”) _ , and he’s almost there,  _ almost _ there, two feet away from the bottle of Glenfiddich he had his hands on earlier, and- 

And then fucking Ben fucking grabs him, twists his arm into an uncomfortable and painful position behind his back, and it’s- it’s fast and hasty, and Klaus tries to remember how to break a goddamned hold without dislocating his arm but his mind comes up with nothing, and next thing he knows asshole Ben is pushing him roughly against a bookshelf, putting his entire body into it, slamming him at full tilt. 

Klaus- 

Klaus breathes deeply through his nose, desperately tries to focus on the way his shoulder is burning, the way something is digging into his cheekbone painfully, the way he’s just sure his ribs are going to be bruised in a couple hours. 

Desperately tries not to focus on Ben’s face on his periphery, disgusted, displeased, full of raging hate and a sort of exasperation that isn’t all that unfamiliar. 

He doesn’t really speak. 

He wouldn’t know what to say. 

“That’s enough, Number One,” Dad says, after a moment. 

Ben waits another beat before letting him go. 

Then Luther’s choking out a disgruntled little noise, disbelieving, “You’re Number One?” and Ben’s flicking his eyes up at him, briefly, but he’s not really speaking either. 

So Ben’s Number One. So what? 

Klaus rolls his shoulder, cricks his neck. 

He walks those two feet towards the Glenfiddich and takes a swig out of it, glasses be damned. He’s not drinking for pleasure, anyway. 

Ben watches him. 

No one actually tells him to put the bottle down, so he doesn’t. 

Five gets into some stupid argument with Dad, and then Diego doesn’t know when to shut up, and Luther doesn’t either, and then Allison’s blabbering about the timeline and the Commission and their mistakes right along with them, and- 

And Klaus watches them, sits down on the most comfortable chair he can find which happens not to be comfortable at all because Dad always hated silly little things such as comfort. 

He watches them. 

Vanya makes strained comments here and there, going mostly unheard. 

Fucking bizarro Ben just kind of stands there, right behind Dad, like he’s a fucking guard dog or something, and Klaus thinks it makes sense that he’s Number One here, because that’s exactly how Luther would stand when they were kids, all amenable and eager to please. 

He can barely keep track of the conversation, too busy trying to remember if he was already dizzy before or if his three years of sobriety somehow managed to lower his tolerance to alcohol. It’d usually take far more than half a bottle to even make him tipsy. 

It all goes to shit when the weirdos from the balcony finally decide to come down. 

Five shuts up abruptly in the middle of explaining the joys of paradox psychosis. Everyone turns to look towards the staircase. Even Klaus, because why the hell not? 

And then- 

Then, standing right in front of them are five assholes in knee-high socks and a random green cube, floating ominously beside them. 

Klaus laughs,  _ again. _

“Oh, this is gonna be good,” he mutters, and he takes another swig of his bottle. 

* 

There are some very awkward introductions. 

Klaus barely pays attention. 

Next thing he knows Dad announces it’s dinner time and then they’re in the dining hall.  _ The  _ dining hall, not that room they used to have their meals in. This one’s quite frankly ridiculous, with polished floors and lavish paintings and more chandeliers than he’s comfortable with, and, front and center,  _ a twenty-seater.  _

For important parties, Dad would say, for important people. 

Not for bratty children. 

Klaus was only in that room a handful of times throughout his childhood. 

And it’s so,  _ so  _ stupid, so  _ ridiculous _ , the Umbrella Academy lined up in one side of the table, the Sparrow Academy in the other, Dad at the head seat, all calm and cool and collected, as if it was just another Thursday night. 

Klaus tries to sit as away from him as humanly possible, but. 

Diego beats him to it, and then Luther, and Vanya, and Allison, and so Klaus ends up sandwiched between her and Five, wondering if it’d be rude to stand up and go fetch another bottle. It probably would. 

In front of him is a mousy girl with weird features, maybe even shorter than Vanya. 

She’s got her hair up in a bun. She’s wearing the thickest glasses he’s ever seen. 

She won’t stop staring at him. 

Klaus looks down, fidgets on his seat. 

The cube’s there, too, just floating in a corner. 

He doesn’t like these people. 

“So,” Klaus says, very,  _ very _ loudly, just because he can’t stand the silence. “What’s a bunch of thirty-year-olds still living with their father for, huh? Aren’t you all ashamed of yourselves?” 

_ “Klaus,” _ Allison hisses by his side. 

Klaus very pointedly ignores her. 

He looks at everyone, expectant. Not at Ben, though. Definitely not at Ben. 

Mousy girl doesn’t reply, just keeps staring like a creep, and then, next to her, that guy that’s more scars than skin doesn’t make a peep either, and neither do the next two girls, but then- 

Tall, and blonde, with an air of superiority. “We’re heroes, Klaus,” she says, and Klaus decides he hates her just on the basis that her ponytail is too perky. “Unlike you, we take pride in what we do. The Sparrow Academy is our home.” 

“Right,” Klaus says. “Sure.” 

The hall’s doors burst open and suddenly there are  _ waiters _ in black and white uniforms swarming the place, dropping plates and cups and glasses all around them, bustling. 

Which is definitely not normal. 

“Where’s Mom?” Klaus blurts. 

He receives blank stares. 

“Grace?” 

And he does search Ben’s face for this. 

He receives a subtle shake of the head, a confused expression. 

“Oh,” 

Then Diego’s grunting. “So we managed to mess  _ that _ up, too. Fun.” 

“Shut up, Diego,” Five says, without skipping a beat. 

They start eating, mainly because there’s not much else to do. 

It’s some meat stew, one of Dad’s favorites. They’d eat that thing all the time when they were children, and it tastes nothing like  _ Mom’s _ but it’s good enough. Klaus hasn’t had something that homey in ages. 

It’s all good and it’s all fine and it’s all bearable until a waiter goes around filling up everyone’s cups with red wine, and Klaus finishes his, and asks for more, and finishes it again, and asks for more, and goes to gulp it all down, and- 

And Five’s hand latches out from out of nowhere, takes a hold of his cup with a harsh movement and puts it back down on the table. “Jesus, Klaus. Can’t you stop drinking?” 

Klaus watches the cup, watches the liquid splash around dangerously. “Maybe I fucking can’t, have you thought about that?” 

And it’s true. 

It’s true. It’s true. 

He was sober for Dave, so he could conjure him, but then they time traveled and he wasn’t a ghost anymore so it all went to shit, and then he was sober for Ben, so he’d stop getting on his nerves about not winding up dead in a gutter somewhere, but now Ben’s _ gone,  _ so is there even a point anymore? 

He thought he was sober for himself for a while, there. 

But now Dave’s gone, and Ben’s gone, and he doesn’t know who he is without them. 

He stares at Five. 

Five stares at him. 

It’s all very confrontative, a disaster waiting to happen. 

Klaus reaches for the glass, brings it to his lips  _ so very slowly _ \- 

But then one of the sparrow assholes, one of the girls, all dark skin and dark hair, and amicable eyes, she tilts her head, looks him in the eye. “You can’t stop drinking?” she calls, with an easy smile, and then,  _ so soft he almost misses it _ , “I don’t believe you!” 

And- 

Nothing really happens for a second or two. 

Nothing at all. 

But then it’s like- 

It’s like something breaks. Like something shifts. Like something wasn’t, but now is. Like something should have always been. 

Klaus stares down at his wine, and he wants to drink it all up, wants to drown in it until he can’t think straight anymore, until there’s no pain, and no regret, and until he can’t feel Dave’s fist on his chin anymore, until he can’t feel Ben twisting his arm back anymore, until he’s floating, and he’s nothing, and nothing matters. 

He stares down at his wine, and- 

_ (“I don’t believe you!”) _

He stares down at his wine and the thought of putting it anywhere near his lips is revolting, is disgusting, it’s abhorrent, something loathsome. 

And he wants it. 

He wants it so,  _ so _ badly. He  _ wants _ it more than he could ever put into words. 

_ (“I don’t believe you!”) _

He drops the cup. Into his lap. Into the table. Into Allison, and into Five. 

“Oh, god,” Allison blurts, and she stands up in a second, rubbing at her pants and at her shirt with her napkin, trying to soak up what she can from the table’s cloth, now ruined. 

Then there’s a small army of waiters there, uselessly dapping at it, too, and Five’s rolling his eyes, resigned to his damp jacket sleeve, and Dad’s grunting, disapproving, and the rest of his siblings are watching quietly, maybe concerned, maybe exasperated, and- 

_ (“I don’t believe you!”) _

_ (“I don’t believe you!”) _

_ (“I don’t believe you!”) _

The mousy girl with the glasses barks out a laugh, loud, unexpected, incredibly out place, a sound no one would believe came out of such a meek person 

Then- 

Then Ben’s laughing, too, something far more muted, but there. “Oh,  _ thank you, _ Carla,” he says, cruel, brutish,  _ familiar _ , “That was making me nervous.” 

“Wait, you did that?” Diego suddenly says, staring at  _ Carla  _ with something horrified. 

She doesn’t reply. 

Her smile says it all. 

“How?” Klaus rasps, even though it’s obvious. 

And Carla’s smile widens. “I said so.” 

Allison freezes in her useless dabbing, looks up sharply, disgruntled. She doesn’t really speak but Klaus can see it all the same. 

That’s  _ her _ thing. 

That’s  _ her _ power. 

What the hell does it mean if there’s some other asshole who can do what she can? 

Allison used to be a little cruel, when they were kids, a little selfish. It took her years, and it took her tears, and it took her losing more than she had ever won to understand when to use her power, when to sit back and let her greed and her opportunism behind. 

This Carla girl? 

She’s lived thirty years under their father’s care. 

She knows nothing about kindness, and compassion. 

Klaus looks down at his shirt, tinted red, his entire torso soaked,  _ cold _ , and he wonders, detachedly, if over all the pain and the confusion and the screaming Dave ever looked down at his own torso, saw the red, felt it soaking him, felt the  _ cold.  _

Dave is dead. 

Or maybe he isn’t, in this new timeline. But it doesn’t matter. 

Dave is gone. 

“Klaus, are you okay?” 

It’s Allison, her hand on his shoulder, her eyes wide, and warm, and everything that’s ever meant love. 

Klaus shakes her hand off his shoulder. 

He looks to the side and there’s Ben, and once upon a time he’d look at him and he’d see love, too, he’d see something comforting, and genuine, and he’d see the one person in the entire goddamned planet that would never turn his back on him. 

But then- 

Then something happened, along the way. 

Somewhere along the way, the laughter turned into silence, suffocating, uncomfortable, the jokes and the bickering and the fond remarks turned into something- something  _ broken _ . 

_ (“He’s gone,” Vanya had said, back in that building. _

_ “What do you mean?” _

_ “I mean he’s gone. Forever.”) _

Klaus steps away from the table. 

His chair clanks loudly against the floor, nearly hits a poor waiter’s foot. 

He walks out of the hall and doesn’t look back. 

* 

He ends up in the attic, because that’s the one place Dad never put cameras in, the one place Klaus could  _ relax _ in when he was a kid. 

But he’s not a kid anymore, and the ceiling’s too short, and the air too stuffy, and everything’s covered with dust, and the chairs and pillows and blankets that he started hoarding at some point are just  _ not there  _ at all, and- 

And he walks out, not ten minutes later. 

He feels jittery, and overstrung, like he’s on the edge of something. 

It’s easy, to find a wet bar tucked behind some cabinetry, because his father’s a rich prick and rich pricks love their unnecessary alcohol in every corner, and now that one of his sons isn’t an addict it’s actually fully stocked. He finds a bottle, and uncaps it, and goes to take a swig out of it, but- 

_ (“I don’t believe you!”) _

Is it weird, to feel a crave, and an urge, something all-consuming and commanding, something that screams at him to either drink every last drop of alcohol in the house or go out into the streets and find himself some oxy, some codeine, some goddamned valium at this point? 

Is it weird, to look down at the bottle and feel a sort of open revulsion,  _ true _ , that leaves no room for anything else? 

_ (“I don’t believe you!”) _

Klaus snaps his eyes shut and takes a swig of the bottle, ignores the loathing, and the aversion, and whatever the hell keeps echoing around his skull, imposing and insistent. 

He- 

He spits it out, the second the liquid touches his tongue. 

It’s something weird, it’s something  _ weird _ , and Klaus doesn’t know how he’s feeling, dizzy, and intoxicated, and yeah, yeah,  _ maybe _ a little tipsy, and somehow, he ends up locked in a bathroom, on his knees, puking his guts out. 

He leans away from the toilet when he’s done, aiming for the wall behind him but not quite making it on time. 

Then he’s lying on his back. 

His shirt’s still soaked,  _ cold. _

Sometimes he wonders how different his life would’ve been if he hadn’t made that selfish choice when he was seventeen years old. If he hadn’t taken a look at his brother’s coffin and felt something like  _ fear _ , like  _ horror _ , if he hadn’t taken a look at his brother’s coffin and decided, right there and then, he was just  _ not _ going to live in a world without him in it. 

Vanya said it wasn’t like that. 

Said Ben stayed because he wanted to stay. 

But then he thinks back to the last couple of years, the way Ben would barely even speak to him, the way Ben would sigh, all exasperated and tired, simply weary. 

He thinks back to Ben  _ possessing _ him,  _ taking, taking, taking _ , thinks back to that disbelief, that panic, that realization that yes, yes, that  _ was _ his brother, that  _ was _ him, doing the one thing he asked him not to do, taking a hold of his freedom and shredding it to pieces, taking a look at his pleas and his desperation and urgency and deciding they were not all that important. 

It’s a little difficult, to accept the fact that Ben stayed all those years because he simply wanted to stay. 

Maybe Klaus should’ve told the rest of their siblings he was there. 

Maybe then Ben wouldn’t have decided to leave. 

* 

He wakes up. 

He wakes up, still lying on the bathroom floor, to someone shaking his shoulders roughly. 

_ “Klaus!”  _

He groans, curls away from the touch. 

No matter how many times it’s happened to him, he still finds it incredibly disconcerting, waking up without even remembering falling asleep in the first place. 

“Klaus,  _ you asshole _ . Did you spend the entire night here?” 

It’s Diego. 

And he’s- 

He’s wearing  _ dress pants _ , and a white  _ button-down _ , and- 

“Oh, what is that?” Klaus moans. 

His head is  _ killing _ him. 

Diego, naturally, ignores him. “Jesus, Klaus, we looked for you _everywhere_ , man,” and he reaches for his shoulder again, hauls him up with a rough movement until he’s leaning against the wall like he first intended. 

The world  _ spins.  _

“Oh,” Klaus says, attempting to gauge whether that weird feeling on his stomach means he’s going to puke again or if he just feels like shit. “Oh, okay.” 

Diego raises an eyebrow. 

The moment passes. 

He  _ doesn’t _ throw up again. 

“I was starting to get worried, you know,” Diego says, slowly. 

“Diego,” Klaus says, even slower. “ _ Diego. _ ” 

“What?” 

“What the _ fuck  _ are you wearing?” 

Diego rolls his eyes, stands up and leaves him just fucking sprawled on the floor, not knowing up from down. “Dad wants us to have breakfast together, but you should change first. We’re in the spares in the third floor. There are clothes for you, too.” 

And- 

Yeah, okay, his shirt  _ is _ absolutely ruined. It’s all stiff, and uncomfortable, a little sticky. 

“C’mon,” Diego says. “Let’s go.” 

But his head is  _ killing _ him. 

Klaus hums, shuts his eyes very slowly. “Yeah, why don’t you go ahead? I think I’m gonna stay here for a little while, if you don’t mind.” 

_ “Klaus-” _

_ “Diego.”  _

A sigh. 

A huff of air, really. “Whatever,” Diego says, giving up way sooner than Klaus would’ve guessed. “Just- Klaus, we’re gonna need you to behave, okay?” 

Klaus opens his eyes. Raises an eyebrow. 

Diego shifts awkwardly. “Five’s saying we might have to stay here for a good while if not  _ forever,”  _ he hisses, lowly, “And I don’t know about you but I don’t want these sparrow assholes to decide we’re the enemy. You saw what that chick did to you.” 

_ (“I don’t believe you!”) _

Klaus looks away. 

“Just don’t piss any of them off,” Diego says. “Can you do that?” 

Easier said than done, Klaus thinks. 

He was very much minding his own business when that  _ chick _ turned to him and opened her mouth. The shape of her smile is going to be engraved behind his eyelids for as long as he lives. 

“Klaus, I need you to reply,” Diego says, forcefully. “Can you do that?” 

He shrugs. “Yeah, whatever.” 

* 

Diego does leave him alone, eventually. 

After a while. 

After he aggressively hauls him up and forces him to drink a whole lot of water straight from the bathroom’s tap. (Completely unnecessary and  _ very _ rude, Klaus thinks, considering he probably would’ve gotten to that at some point by himself.) 

He still feels like shit, but he’s felt worse, so he makes do. 

The house pisses him off because everything looks similar enough to how it should look, to how he remembers it looking from his childhood, but _ not quite.  _ Some rooms he walks into and instead of finding a sitting room he finds some storage area, some corners he turns expecting certain painting or certain statue and instead finds a blank wall. 

By some miracle he makes it to the third floor without experiencing too much existential dread, and he locks himself in the bedroom Diego had pointed him to. 

As promised, there are clothes for him. 

They’re there, laid out on the bed, his size. But they’re- 

_ They’re a Sparrow Academy uniform.  _

And they’re almost insulting, the tie, and the blazer, and the shoes, all different colors than he’s used to but virtually indistinguishable from the clothes Dad used to brand them once upon a time, to turn them into faceless soldiers. 

A brief bout of hysterical laughter bubbles out from Klaus’ throat. 

The Umbrella Academy never even existed in this timeline, and still, Dad somehow finds a way to put a metaphorical foot to their throat and scream:  _ you don’t matter!  _

He’s not going to wear that uniform. 

He’s just not. 

And then he’s out into the hallways again, in the search for something that isn’t either sticky and gross or makes him want to rip his skin off. 

The halls feel foreign, as he walks through them. 

He ignores the odd pang of paranoia seeing new paintings or different furniture gives him and instead makes his way to the second floor, to that one wing of the house that wasn’t creepily set up and left to rot, collecting dust. 

The bedrooms. 

He decides not to touch his, because he’s pretty sure opening the door and seeing some other fucker’s stuff all over would absolutely send him spiraling. 

He opens door after door, judging. 

They all look plain, he thinks, lived in, yes, but plain. Maybe like how Vanya’s bedroom used to look like, before she moved out when they were teens. Clothes, and shoes, and books thrown carelessly around, loved, but devoid of decoration, of personality. 

There’s a room with a few potted plants. 

There’s a room with an aggressively pink comforter on the bed. 

There’s a room that he almost mistakes for a spare, disturbingly empty, neatly organized in a way that’s just freakish. 

Then there’s a room he opens and shuts in less than a second, feeling some vague nausea that’s not related at all to his wine and his Glenfiddich from yesterday, because- 

Because the room- 

It’s  _ swarming _ with books, and bookcases, and shelfs, thick spines lining almost every goddamned wall and then some, and the bed isn’t made, and over the bedside there’s a stupid goddamned poster of one of those annoying boybands from the nineties, and- 

And it’s Ben’s. 

It has got to be Ben’s, and Klaus- 

He can’t. 

He just can’t. 

He takes some wobbly steps towards the next door, opens it almost unthinkingly. 

There’s another unmade bed, a few posters for bands he doesn’t actively dislike. 

He forces himself to focus on any stupid little detail he can possibly find, just so he won’t start having any thoughts, any ideas, any musings. 

_ (If this Ben likes the same books as  _ his _ Ben-? _

_ If this Ben can’t be bothered to keep his space organized just like  _ his _ Ben-? _

_ If this Ben happens to be into the fucking Backstreet Boys just like  _ his _ Ben-?) _

The room in front of him is on the larger side. It’s not one that any of them actually ever used, back in the right timeline. It looks depressingly bare, just like the rest of them. 

But there’s a throw blanket, over the bed, it’s blue, and dark, and pretty, and it’s got a nice pattern running over most of its bottom half, disappearing into the top, all stars, and planets, and rings, and nebulas. 

Klaus looks at it, and tells himself to breathe. 

Klaus looks at it, and comes to the outstanding realization that this one room is the one that makes him want to cry the least, so it’ll have to do. 

The closet’s full of pretty clothes and pretty colors, and he thinks any other day he would have taken his sweet time picking and choosing, but he feels like he’s all over the place, his mind a turmoil of thoughts and half formed ideas, shaken. He wants to throw on whatever and be done with the whole thing, throw on whatever and walk out of this house and walk into a couple years ago, when things weren’t good but at least they were certain. 

He digs through the clothes, eventually finds some palazzo pants with a wide enough waistband and a thick wool sweater, both black. 

They’re nice. 

They’re soft. 

He heads to the bathroom with them and runs a bath, pours almost half a bottle of something that smells fruity into it. It bubbles more than strictly necessary. 

The water is hot and all compassing. 

When he’s in the bathtub, nothing is real. Not even himself. 

It’s funny, but before Vietnam and before the sixties, baths would sometimes make him a little nervous. Not much. Not enough to stop taking them, but enough that he’d occasionally wonder just what the hell was wrong with him, that he couldn’t stand the thought of locking himself in a small room, quiet, dissonant, unlit. 

It probably had something to do with the mausoleum, he supposes. 

It’s funny, but his ghosts (not the real ones- the ones that were, once upon a time, but are no more), his nightmares, everything that plagued him and held him down when he was kid, when he was desperately trying to prove to himself he wasn’t a kid- 

It’s like it’s gone. 

Like too many horrible things happened to him in the last couple years, like his mind decided to compartmentalize his goddamned trauma and his nightmares and everything that hurts because it was just too damned much. 

He never has nightmares about the mausoleum anymore. 

It’s always Dave, dead, dying, gurgling, fighting for breath. 

It’s always Vanya, locked in a cage in the basement, her cries unheard. 

It’s always Allison, sprawled on the floor, wide open eyes, soaked in a pool of her own blood. 

It’s always those last few moments, fire all around them, clutching Diego’s hand and clutching Allison’s hand, and it’s always after, it’s those brief and overwhelming moments of dread, of panic, realizing he was lost to time and his entire family might as well have been dead. 

He used to have nightmares about Ben’s death, years and years ago. 

They stopped one day. 

He wonders if his nightmares will change, now, that he’s lost him again. Now, that’s he’s  _ actually _ lost him. 

When he’s done with his bath he feels almost disoriented. 

The clothes he stole are soft, and comfortable, and maybe they even look good, but he feels like he can’t quite focus on them, on anything that isn’t that soft but insistent buzz under his skin, dissonant and unfamiliar. 

He opens the bathroom’s door. 

He walks out. 

He shuts the bathroom’s door. 

He looks up. 

Ben is standing right in front of him, staring. 

Not Ben. 

Or- 

Maybe, yes, Ben. But a different version of him. 

A Ben that grew up with the same father but an entirely different set of siblings. A Ben that’s alive and breathing. A Ben that thinks emo bangs are somehow acceptable. 

“Hi,” Klaus says, after a too long moment. 

Ben regards him. “You missed breakfast,” he says, tone carefully neutral. 

Klaus shrugs. 

Another moment passes. 

Klaus feels like he’s going to burst. 

Then, “Are those my  _ sister’s?” _

For a split-second Klaus hasn’t got the slightest idea what he’s talking about, but then he notices Ben’s eyes, glued to the thick wool sweater, to the pants. “Uh,” he starts. 

Ben’s eyebrows shoot up. “I’m pretty sure those are my sister’s.” 

Klaus- 

He huffs out, rolls his eyes. “I’m just  _ borrowing _ them, I’m sure she won’t mind,” he says, matter of factly, as if he knew who the hell he was talking about and whether or not she’d mind, “No offence, but I was not about to be caught dead wearing-” and he gives Ben’s uniform a once over, “- _ that. _ ” 

And then Ben has the audacity to look  _ insulted.  _

“Just make sure to return them before you leave, would you?” Ben spits, all harsh words and angry movements. There’s something hesitant to the lines of his face. 

It’s stupid. 

It’s stupid because Klaus would insult Ben’s outfit choices all the time back when he was alive and he could actually change clothes, and then he would mock Ben incessantly for winding up dead while wearing the most boring clothes ever. 

Ben would only ever shoot back another insult, unthinkingly. Maybe he’d call him annoying, or tiresome, or exasperating, or maybe he’d only ever roll his eyes and reply with a grunt. 

It’s stupid, but Ben never got angry. 

He could always,  _ always _ , see the hint of smile, on his face. 

(Not always, though. 

Not in a good while.) 

Klaus swallows, opens his palms up. Hello. Goodbye. “Hey, no harsh feelings,” he says, voice croaking despite his efforts, “I’ll put the clothes back. I just-” he lets the words hang, feeling a strange sort of desperation, a need to make this Ben understand he’s a friend and not a foe. “Uh, I didn’t love my Academy years. I don’t want to wear the uniform.” 

Ben considers him. 

Then he seems to deflate, breathing out, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re all  _ very _ confrontative towards my father.” 

Klaus smiles, tight. “ _ Our _ father.” 

“Right,” Ben says. 

“Right,” Klaus echoes. “And I don’t know if he’s winning any father of the year awards in here, but back in our timeline he wasn’t  _ great _ . He’d do pretty much anything in the name of training, you know? Back in the day, he’d-” 

And he stops dead on his tracks. 

Ben knows about the mausoleum. 

This is  _ not _ Ben. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” Klaus mutters, looking away. 

Ben sighs. “He’s unorthodox, I’ll give you that. But he’s-” a huff of air, almost laughter, but not quite, “He created the Sparrow Academy. I owe my life to him.” 

“Oh,” Klaus says, and he tries to not grimace-  _ really _ , he tries. “Oh, that’s funny.” 

And it’s  _ funny _ . 

It’s sad, and depressing, and plain disturbing, but it’s  _ funny,  _ because Ben would sometimes say that kinda crap about Dad when they were kids- nowhere near as bad as Luther’s adoration and borderline devotion, but he’d say that kinda crap when they were kids! 

He told him, once, years later, that it was never about playing hero or being the favorite son for him. He told him, voice strained, eyes distant, that it was about the missions, and the massacres he was forced to commit, about the bloodbaths and all the people he ever ripped apart limb by limb. 

He had to believe in something. 

He had to believe he wasn’t a cold-blooded murderer. 

Then he died, and- 

“What?” Ben says. “What’s so funny?” 

“Ben,” Klaus hisses, his tone edging into a whine. “Ben, you- you don’t owe your life to that bastard, okay? So he raised you, so what? If anything, he’s the reason you ended up dead.” 

Ben raises an eyebrow. 

“I mean, not  _ you,  _ but-” 

“What the hell are you talking about?” Ben asks, in earnest. 

Klaus- 

Klaus tries to think back to yesterday, to the awkward introductions. 

He remembers something similar to the tiki bar, a quick rundown of names and powers, Five pointing at each one of them and muttering brief descriptions. Then it was Ben doing the same thing with the Sparrows after Dad nodded his approval, and- 

And the second Ben opened his mouth and started babbling nonsense about  _ Number One, Number Two, Number Three  _ and who the hell knows what else, Klaus did the smart thing and zoned the fuck out, but- 

No one told him. 

No one actually told him. 

Klaus breathes out very slowly. “So,” he starts, almost conversationally, “Remember how we said we’re from another timeline where dear ‘ol Dad raised  _ us _ instead of you?” 

Ben nods carefully. 

“Yeah, well,” Klaus says. “There were seven of us. You were one of them. You’re not here, because you died on a mission when we were seventeen years old and two days ago you managed to die  _ again  _ and fucked off to the afterlife. Real committed.” 

“I-” Ben starts,  _ “What?”  _

“Yeah!” Klaus says, artificially chirpy. “And I know you’re not him, but you’re wearing his face and, uh,” a giggle, deranged, “It’s a little trippy, man.” 

“Jesus,” Ben mutters, and then, louder, “ _ Jesus. _ I-  _ ghosts _ , right?” he says, suddenly. “You’re the one with the ghosts?” 

Klaus nods. 

“So your brother- your brother  _ dies _ , and you can still see him?” 

Another nod. 

“God, okay. That’s-” Ben starts, frowning. “That’s disturbing.” 

Klaus shrugs. “You get used to it.” 

He doesn’t mention he’s spent the past thirty years trying to  _ get used to it _ and hasn’t really succeeded. 

“And you’re saying  _ I’m- _ ” Ben keeps going. He looks constipated. “I’m...  _ him.” _

“Yep.” 

“Oh,” Ben says. “Oh, okay.” 

They stare at each other for a couple moments. 

Ben’s processing, Klaus guesses. 

He never takes anything at face value. 

“Look,” Ben says, after a while, words short and forceful. “Look, I’m- I’m so  _ sorry _ for your loss, but- I'm not him, okay? Even if it was me in your timeline, I’m- I’m a different person here,” he says overenunciating each word, “I don’t know you.” 

Klaus looks up at him. Very carefully does not glower. “I know,” he says, “I’m not stupid.” 

“That’s not what I meant.” 

“But that’s-” Klaus stops, sighs. “Rest assured, I don’t want anything from you. I just thought you’d like to know. Everyone’s gonna be giving you weird looks.” 

“Yeah,” Ben says, awkwardly. “Yeah. Um, thank you.” 

And then they’re back to standing in front of each other, staring, unblinking. 

Klaus feels like he’s going to burst. 

He’s- 

He’s gone and done it now. 

Ben is gone. 

Dave is gone. 

Now he doesn’t even have the stupid cult to follow him around and assure him he’s not a fuck up. 

Klaus digs his nails into his palms, “Hey, no offence, but don’t you have anything better to do? Someone else to bother?” and he twists his words, makes them intentionally unkind. The man standing in front of him is not his brother. 

He doesn’t reply, of course, because he’s an asshole like that. 

Klaus wonders how similar to Allison’s rumors are that girl’s powers. He wonders if it’s worth it, trying to bring another bottle to his lips. 

_ (“I don’t believe you!”) _

“How about that freaky floating cube, huh?” Klaus calls, feeling jittery all of the sudden. “Bet it’s real fun at parties.” 

And there’s a reaction, there. 

Ben more or less grimaces, gives him a tight smile. “He’s not a  _ freaky floating cube _ , alright? He’s- he’s my brother. Just so you know.” 

And Klaus- 

_ Klaus laughs. _

“Oh my god!” he breathes, and he doesn’t know  _ why _ he’s laughing but he is, “Ben!” he says, “Ben! This timeline is so fucked up! Why the hell is your brother a floating cube?” 

“Hey!” Ben says, and now he’s angry, again. “Hey, I wasn’t a jerk about it when you told me about your ghost brother, so-” 

“Yeah,” Klaus babbles, laughter not quite stopping. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’re all grown adults so I shouldn’t laugh about your  _ cube _ brother-” 

“He wasn’t always like that,” Ben hisses, suddenly,  _ fiercely _ . “He-  _ it was a mission, alright?  _ We were kids, and-” 

And now Klaus feels like crying. 

He stops laughing. “Of course it was a mission!” 

It’s always a mission. 

“It was a mission, and  _ still _ , you fucking say you owe Dad your life and all that bullshit, and you wear his fucking  _ uniform _ , and you live in this  _ shithole _ , and-!” 

“Hey!” Ben barks. 

He takes a step forward. 

It’s a split second. He steps forward, and Klaus wants him to step back. For a second, it’s like they’re back at the mansion, and Ben’s begging to possess him, just for a couple  _ minutes _ , pretty please, please, just for a couple  _ minutes _ , he’ll follow his ground rules, pinky promise. 

He steps forward, and Klaus wants him to step back. 

He’s feeling too much. He’s painfully sober. 

He feels like he’s going to burst. 

“No!” Klaus blurts, and there’s a boom. 

He feels a surge of power going through his body, like when he makes a ghost corporeal, but different. Simply different. Then his fists are glowing blue and it’s like he’s burning from the inside out, like something’s bursting out of him in waves. 

It’s a single boom. 

The walls shake. The ceiling trembles. 

Doorknobs all around them rattle aggressively. 

The lightbulb above them bursts into a thousand pieces. 

There’s a shower of glass and then they’re standing in a dark hallway. 

Klaus- 

Klaus decides this is, undoubtedly, _ new _ . 

Ben huffs out something annoyed, “Nice display,” he grits, “Real mature.” 

And then he walks away. 

Klaus is left alone, staring down at his hands and wondering what the hell just happened. 

**Author's Note:**

> !!!!!
> 
> follow me on tumblr @myeyesarenotblue


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